The door cracked open
of a high house,
scattered cries of,
“Help, help, help!”
But no one came,
for these cries were
from a high house.
She was stripped
garment by garment,
her last drape snatched,
debased.
She was helpless
craven and lifeless.
Her youthfulness
was dead,
merely a pile of soot.
This was the honor of
a poor man’s daughter.
She was dead,
merely a pile of soot,
no longer able to raise a voice.
This was the honor, the chastity,
of a poor man’s daughter.
The high flames
of her pyre
became a vampire
to suck the blood
of her looters.
